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BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



A MOTLEY 

VILLA RUBEIN 

THE ISLAND PHARISEES 

THE MAN OF PROPERTY 

THE COUNTRY HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 



PLAYS 



A COMMENTARY 



JUSTICE 

A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS 



JUSTICE 

A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1910 



T^l."!"^ 



^ 



COPVWGHT, IQIO, BT 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 

All rights reserved 
Published October, 1910 




gClD 222\)'i 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

James How ) , . ., 

„r XX 7 . > solicitors 

Walter How, his son ) 

Robert Cokeson, their managing clerk 

William Falder, their junior clerk 

SwEEDLE, their ofjice-hoy 

WisTER, a detective 

Cowley, a cashier 

Mr. Justice Floyd, a judge 

Harold Cleaver, an old advocate 

Hector Frome, a young advocate 

Captain Danson, V.C, a prison governor 

The Rev. Hugh Miller, a prison chaplain 

Edward Clements, a prison doctor 

WooDER, a chief warder 

Moaney \ 

Clipton > convicts 

O 'Clear Y ) 

Ruth Honeywill, a woman 

A Number op Barristers, Solicitors, Spectators, 

Ushers, Reporters, Jurymen, Warders, and 

Prisoners 

TIME: The Present. 

ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. 

July. 
ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. 
ACT III. A prison. December. 

SCENE I. The Governor's office. 

SCENE II. A corridor. 

SCENE III. A cell. 

ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. 
March, two years later. 



CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION 

AT THE 

DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 



James How 

Walter How 

Cokeson 

Falder 

The Office-boy 

The Detective 

The Cashier 

The Judge 

The Old Advocate 

The Young Advocate 

The Prison Governor 

The Prison Chaplain 

The Prison Doctor 

Wooder 

Moaney 

Clipton 

O'Cleary 

Ruth Honeywill 



Mr. Sydney Valentine 

Mr. Charles Maude 

Mr. Edmund Gwenn 

Mr. Dennis Eadie 

Mr. George Hersee 

Mr. Leslie Carter 

Mr. C. E. Vernon 

Mr. Dion Boucicault 

Mr. Oscar Adye 

Mr. Charles Bryant 

Mr. Grendon Bentley 

Mr. Hubert Harben 

Mr. Lewis Casson 

Mr. Frederick Lloyd 

Mr. Robert Pateman 

Mr. O. p. Heggie 

Mr. Whitford Kane 

Miss Edyth Olive 



ACT I 

The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of 
James and Walter How, on a July morning. 
The room is old-fashioned, furnished with well-worn 
mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and 
estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them 
are close together in the centre of a wall. One of 
these two doors leads to the outer office, which is 
only divided from the managing clerk's room by a 
partition of wood and clear glass; and when the 
door into this outer office is opened there can be 
seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone 
stairway of the building. The other of these two 
centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The 
third door is that leading to the partners' room. 

The managing clerk, Cokeson, is sitting at his table 
adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring 
their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, 
wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, 
and an honest, pug-dog face. He is dressed in a 
well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt 
trousers. 

Cokeson. And five's twelve, and three — fifteen, 
nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one — and carry 



2 JUSTICE ACT I 

four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] 
Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, 
thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. 

He again makes a tick. The outer office 
door is opened, and Sweedle, the office-boy, 
appears, closing the door behind him. He 
is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. 

CoKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry 
one. 

Sweedle. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. 
Cokeson. 

CoKEsoN. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty- 
nine — and carry two. Sent him to Morris's. What 
name? 

Sweedle. Honeywill. 

Cokeson. What's his business? 

Sweedle. It's a woman. 

Cokeson. A lady ? 

Sweedle. No, a person. 

Cokeson. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to 
Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book. 

Sweedle. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, 
please ? 

Ruth Honeywill comes in. She is a tall 
woman, twenty-six years old, unpreten- 
tiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, 
and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She 
stands very still, having a natural dignity of 
pose and gesture. 



^CT I JUSTICE 3 

SwEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with 
the pass-book. 

CoKEsoN. [Looking round at Ruth] The young 
man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. 

Ruth. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and 
with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal 
matter, sir. 

CoKESON. We don't allow private callers here. 
Will you leave a message ? 

Ruth. I'd rather see him, please. 

She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a 
honeyed look. 

CoKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. 
Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never 
do! 

Ruth. No, sir. 

CoKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here 
you are wanting to see a junior clerk! 

Ruth. Yes, sir; I must see him. 

CoKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of 
outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to 
his private address. 

Ruth. He's not there. 

CoKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? 

Ruth. No, sir. 

CoKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know 
what to say. It's no affair of the office. 

Ruth. But what am I to do ? 

CoKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. 



4 JUSTICE ACT I 

* SwEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer 

office and passes through into it, with a 

quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving 

the door an inch or two open. 

Cokeson. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, 

you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the 

partners came in! 

An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard 
from the outer door of the outer office. 
SwEEDLE. [Putting his head in\ There's some chil- 
dren outside here. 

Ruth. They're mine, please. 
SwEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check ? 
Ruth. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step 
towards Cokeson. 

Cokeson. You mustn't take up his time in oflSce 
hours; we're a clerk short as it is. 

Ruth. It's a matter of life and death. 
Cokeson. [Again outraged] Life and death! 
Sweedle. Here is Falder. 

Falder has entered through the outer office. 
He is a pale, good-looking young man, 
with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves 
towards the door of the clerks' office, and 
stands there irresolute. 
Cokeson. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not 
regular. 

Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into 
the partners' room. 



ACT I JUSTICE 5 

Ruth. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink 
again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last night. 
I came out with the children before he was awake. 
I went round to you 

Falder. I've changed my digs. 

Ruth. Is it all ready for to-night ? 

Falder. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at 
the booking oflSce. For God's sake don't forget we're 
man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] 
Ruth! 

Ruth. You're not afraid of going, are you ? 

Falder. Have you got your things, and the chil- 
dren's ? 

Ruth. Had to leave them, for fear of waking 
Honey will, all but one bag. I can't go near home 
again. 

Falder. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. 
How much must you have ? 

Ruth. Six pounds — I could do with that, I think. 

Falder. Don't give away where we're going. [As 
if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget 
it all. 

Ruth. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed 
me than take you against your will. 

Falder. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. 
I don't care; I'll have you. 

Ruth. You've just to say; it's not too late. 

Falder. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. 
Booking office — 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what 
you are to me, Ruth ! 



6 JUSTICE ACT I 

Ruth. Kiss me! 

They cling together passionately, then fly apart 
just as CoKESON re-enters the room. Ruth 
turns and goes out through the outer office. 
CoKESON advances deliberately to his chair 
and seats himself. 
CoKESON. This isn't right, Falder. 
Falder. It shan't occur again, sir. 
CoKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. 
Falder. Yes, sir. 

CoKESON. You quite understand — the party was 
in some distress; and, having children with her, I 
allowed my feelings [He opens a drawer and pro- 
duces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the 
Home." It's a well-written thing. 

Falder. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] 
Thank you, sir. 

CoKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter 
comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis 
had in hand before he left ? 

Falder. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir — 
for good. 

CoKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now 
it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work 
for private life. I shan't mention about the party 

having called, but 

Falder. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. 
CoKESON stares at the door through which 
Falder has gone out; then shakes his head, 
and is just settling down to write, when 



ACT I JUSTICE 7 

Walter How comes in through the outer 
office. He is a rather refined-looking man 
of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apolo- 
getic voice. 

Walter. Good-morning, Cokeson. 

CoKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. 

Walter. My father here ? 

Cokeson. [Always with a certain patronage as to a 
young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has 
been here since eleven o'clock. 

Walter. I've been in to see the pictures, at the 
Guildhall. 

Cokeson. [Looking at him as though this were 
exactly what was to be expected] Have you now — ye-es. 
This lease of Boulter's — am I to send it to counsel ? 

Walter. What does my father say ? 

Cokeson. 'Aven't bothered him. 

Walter. Well, we can't be too careful. 

Cokeson. It's such a little thing — hardly worth 
the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself. 

Walter. Send it, please. I don't want the re- 
sponsibility. 

Cokeson. [With an indescribable air of compassion] 
Just as you like. This "right-of-way" case — we've 
got 'em on the deeds. 

Walter. I know; but the intention was obviously 
to exclude that bit of common ground. 

Cokeson. We needn't worry about that. We're 
the right side of the law. 

Walter. I don't like it. 



8 .JUSTICE ACT I 

CoKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want 
to set ourselves up against the law. Your father 
wouldn't waste his time doing that. 

As he speaks James How comes in from the 
partners' room. He is a shortish man, with 
white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, 
shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. 

James. Morning, Walter, 

Walter. How are you, father? 

Cokeson. [Looking down his nose at the paperit in 
his hand as though deprecating their size\ I'll just take 
Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the in- 
structions. [He goes out into Falder's room. 

Walter. About that right-of-way case ? 

James. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I 
thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance 
was over four hundred. 

Walter. So it is. 

James. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three 
— five — one, no recent cheques. Just get me out the 
cheque-book. 

Walter goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer, 
and produces a cheque-book. 

James. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, 
fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, 
eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally .-* 

Walter. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure 
it was over four hundred. 

James. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the 



ACT I JUSTICE 9 

cheque-hook and cons the counterfoils] What's this 
ninety ? 

Walter. Who drew it ? 

James. You. 

Walter. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's 
the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate 
— last Friday week; I came back on the Tuesday, 
you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I 
drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my 
expenses. It just covered all but half a crown. 

James. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. 
[He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of 
the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here. 
This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque ? 

Walter. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was 
finishing Mrs. Reddy's will — only just had time; yes 
— I gave it to Cokeson. 

James. Look at that t y : that yours ? 

Walter. [After consideration] My y^s curl back a 
little; this doesn't. 

James. [As Cokeson re-enters from Falder's room] 
We must ask him. Just come here and carry your 
mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a 
cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week — the day he 
went to Trenton ? 

Cokeson. Ye-es. Nine pounds. 

James. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque. 

Cokeson. No I Nine pounds. My lunch was just 
coming in; and of course I like it hot; I gave the cheque 
to Davis to run round to the bank. He brought it 



10 JUSTICE ACT I 

back, all gold — you remember, Mr. Walter, you 
wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain 
contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see. You've 
got the wrong cheque. 

He takes cheque-book and pass-book from 
Walter. 

Walter. Afraid not. 

CoKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. 

James. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for 
Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. 

CoKESON. [Puzzled and upset] Why this'd be a 
felony! No, no! there's some mistake. 

James. I hope so. 

Cokeson. There's never been anything of that sort 
in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here. 

James. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a 
very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave 
space after your figures, Walter. 

Walter. [Vexed] Yes, I know — I was in such a 
tearing hurry that afternoon. 

Cokeson. [Suddenbj] This has upset me. 

James. The counterfoil altered too — very deliberate 
piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship } 

Walter. Citij of Rangoon. 

James. We ought to wire and have him arrested 
at Naples; he can't be there yet. 

Cokeson. His poor young wife. I liked the young 
man. Dear, oh dear! In this office! 

Walter. Shall I go to the bank and ask the 
cashier ? 



ACT I 



JUSTICE 11 



James. [Grimhj] Bring him round here. And ring 
up Scotland Yard. 

Walter. Really? 

He goes out through the outer office. James 
paces the room. He stops and looks at 
CoKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the 
knees of his trousers. 

James. Well, Cokeson! There's something in char- 
acter, isn't there .'* 

Cokeson. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't 
quite take you, sir. 

James. Your story would sound d d thin to 

any one who didn't know you. 

Cokeson. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with sudden 
gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as 
if it was my own son, Mr. James. 

James. A nasty business! 

Cokeson. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, 
and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish 
my lunch to-day. 

James. As bad as that, Cokeson ? 

Cokeson. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He 
must have had temptation. 

James. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him 
yet. 

Cokeson. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary 
than had this happen. [He broods. 

James. I hope that fellow will hurry up. 

Cokeson. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] 
It isn't fifty yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. 



12 JUSTICE ACT I 

James. The idea of dishonesty about this oflBce — 
it hits me hard, Cokeson. 

He goes towards the door of the 'partners' room. 

SwEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to Cokeson in a low 
voiced She's popped up again, sir — something she 
forgot to say to Falder. 

Cokeson. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Im- 
possible. Send her away! 

James. What's that? 

Cokeson. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. 
Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office 
as James passes into the partners^ room] Now, you 
really mustn't — we can't have anybody just now. 

Ruth. Not for a minute, sir ? 

Cokeson. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If 
you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his 
lunch directly. 

Ruth. Yes, sir. 

Walter, entering with the cashier, passes 
Ruth as she leaves the outer office. 

Cokeson. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary 
dragoon] Good-morning. [To Walter] Your father's 
in there. 

Walter crosses and goes into the partners' 
room. 

Cokeson. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, 
Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble 
you. 

Cowley. I remember the cheque quite well. [As 
if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. 



ACT I 



JUSTICE 13 



CoKESON. Sit down, won't you ? I'm not a sensitive 
man, but a thing like this about the place — it's not 
nice. I like people to be open and jolly together. 

Cowley. Quite so. 

CoKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing towards 
the partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've 
told him about it before now — leaving space after his 
figures, but he will do it. 

Cowley. I should remember the person's face — 
quite a youth. 

CoKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show 
him to you, as a matter of fact. 

James and Walter have come back from the 
partners' room. 

James. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen 
my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and 
you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of 
us, I take it. 

The cashier shakes his head xvith a smile. 

James. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, 
engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you ? 

He goes towards Falder's room. 

Cokeson. Just a word, Mr. James. 

James. Well ? 

Cokeson. You don't want to upset the young man 
in there, do you ? He's a nervous young feller. 

James. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, 
for the sake of Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. 

Cokeson. \^^ith some dignity] That'll look after 



14 JUSTICE ACT I 

itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I 
don't want him startled again. 

James. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon 
niceness over a thing like this — too serious. |Just 
talk to Mr. Cowley. 

He opens the door of Falder's room. 
James. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will 
you, Falder? 

CoKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs ? 
The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does 
not answer. 
CoKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog 
pup you could spare me, I suppose ? 

At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, 
and he turns to see Falder standing in the 
doorway, with his eyes fixed on Cowley, 
like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a 
snake. 
Falder. [Advancing with the papers] Here they 
are, sir! 

James. [Taking them] Thank you. 
Falder. Do you want me, sir ? 
James. No, thanks! 

Falder turns and goes back into his own 
room. As he shuts the door James gitws the 
cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier 
nods. 
James. Sure ? This isn't as we suspected. 
Cowley. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't 
slip out of that room ? 



ACT I 



JUSTICE 15 



CoKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window — a 
whole floor and ca basement. 

The door of Falder's room is quietly opened, 
and Falder, with his hat in his hand, moves 
towards the door of the outer office. 

James. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder ? 

Falder. To have my lunch, sir. 

James. Wait a few minutes, would you ? I want 
to speak to you about this lease. 

Falder. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room. 

Cowley. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the 
young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last 
cheque I handled that morning before my lunch. 
These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts 
a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] 
Good- morning ! 

James. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! 

Cowley. [To Cokeson] Good-morning. 

CoKESON. [With stupefaction] Good-morning. 

The cashier goes out through the outer office. 
CoKESON sits down in his chair, as though 
it were the only place left in the morass of his 
feelings. 
Walter. What are you going to do ? 
James. Have him in. Give me the cheque and 
the counterfoil. 

Cokeson. I don't understand. I thought young 

Davis 

James. We shall see. 



16 JUSTICE ACT I 

Walter. One moment, father: have you thought 
it out? 

James. Call him in! 

CoKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening Fal- 
der's door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. 

Falder comes in. 

Falder. [Impassively] Yes, sir.? 

James. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque 
held out] You know this cheque, Falder ? 

Falder. No, sir. 

James. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. 

Falder. Oh! yes, sir; that one — Davis gave it me. 

James. I know. And you gave Davis the cash ? 

Falder. Yes, sir. 

James. When Davis gave you the cheque was it 
exactly like this ? 

Falder. Yes, I think so, sir. 

James. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque 
for nine pounds ? 

Falder. No, sir — ninety. 

James. Nine, Falder. 

Falder. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. 

James. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque 
was altered; whether by you or Davis is the question. 

Falder. I — I 

Cokeson. Take your time, take your time. 

Falder. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. 

James. The cheque was handed to Cokeson by Mr. 
Walter at one o'clock; we know that because Mr. 
Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. 



ACT I JUSTICE 17 

CoKESON. I couldn't leave it. 

James. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to 
Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know^ 
that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque 
he handled before his lunch. 

Falder. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because 
some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. 

James. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then ? 

Falder. I don't know, sir — it's very funny. 

Walter, who has come close to his father, says 
something to him in a low voice. 

James. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, 
was he ? 

CoKESON. {Anxious to he of assistance to the young 
m,an, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once 
more] No, he sailed on the Monday. 

James. Was he, Falder ? 

Falder. [Very faintly] No, sir. 

James. Very well, then, how do you account for 
the fact that this nought was added to the nine in 
the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? 

Cokeson. [Surprised] How's that ? 

Falder gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull 
himself together, but he has gone all to 
pieces. 

James. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. 
The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket 
till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning. 
In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that you 
altered both cheque and counterfoil ? 



18 JUSTICE ACT I 

Falder. No, sir — no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I 
did it. 

CoKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! 
what a thing to do! 

Falder. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I 
didn't know what I was doing. 

CoKESON. However such a thing could have come 
into your head! 

Falder. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, 
sir, really! It was just a minute of madness. 

James. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the 
counterfoil] Four days at least. 

Falder. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done 
till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! 
sir, look over it! I'll pay the money back — I will, I 
promise. 

James. Go into your room. 

Falder, with a swift imploring look, goes back 
into his room. There is silence. 

James. About as bad a case as there could be. 

CoKESON. To break the law like that — in here! 

Walter. What's to be done ? 

James. Nothing for it. Prosecute. 

Walter. It's his first offence. 

James. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of 
that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. 

Cokeson. I shouldn't be surprised if he was 
tempted. 

James. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. 

Cokeson. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh 



ACT I JUSTICE 19 

and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come 
to see him this morning. 

Walter. The woman we passed as we came in 
just now. Is it his wife ? 

CoKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in 
jollier circumstances would have been a ^vink] A married 
person, though. 

Walter. How do you know ? 

CoKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] 
There they were outside the office. 

James. A real bad egg. 

Walter. I should like to give him a chance. 

James. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he 
went to work — counting on our suspecting young 
Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest 
accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. 

Walter. It must have been the temptation of a 
moment. He hadn't time. 

James. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, 
if he's a clean mind and habits. He's rotten; got the 
eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's 
money about. 

Walter. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. 

James. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots 
of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with 
them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've 
got a blind spot. 

Walter. It's penal servitude. 

Cokeson. They're nahsty places — prisons. 

James. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible 



20 JUSTICE ACT 1 

to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in 
this office — honesty's the sine qua non. 

CoKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. 

James. Equally out of the question to send him 
out amongst people who've no knowledge of his char- 
acter. One must think of society. 

Walter. But to brand him hke this? 

James. If it had been a straightforward case I'd 
give him another chance. It's far from that. He 
has dissolute habits. 

CoKESoN. I didn't say that — extenuating circum- 
stances. 

James. Same thing. He's gone to work in the 
most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, 
and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's 
not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know 
what is. 

Walter. For the sake of his future, though. 

James. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one 
would ever prosecute. 

Walter. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. 

CoKESON. That's rather ex parte, Mr. Walter! We 
must have protection. 

James. This is degenerating into talk. 

He moves towards the partners^ room. 

Walter. Put yourself in his place, father. 

James. You ask too much of me. 

Walter. We can't possibly tell the pressure there 
was on him. 

James. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is 



ACT I 



JUSTICE 21 



going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or 
no pressure; if he isn't nothing'!! malie him. 

Walter. He'!! never do it again. 

CoKEsoN. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a tallc 
with him. We don't want to be hard on the young 
man. 

James. That'!! do, Co!veson. I've made up my 
mind. [He passes into the partners' room. 

CoKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must ex- 
cuse your father. I don't want to go against your 
father; if he thinlss it right. 

Walter. Confound it, Colieson! why don't you 
baclc me up ? You linow you fee! 

CoKESON. [On his dignity] I rea!!y can't say what 
I feel. 

Walter. We sha!! regret it. 

CoKESON. He must have !cnown what he was 
doing. 

Walter. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not 
strained." 

CoKESoN. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. 
Walter. We must try and see it sensible. 

SwEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. 

CoKESON. Put it down ! 

While SwEEDLE is putting it down on Coke- 
son's table, the detective, Wister, enters the 
outer office, and, finding no one there, comes 
to the inner doorway. He is a square, 
medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a ser- 
viceable blue serge suit and strong boots. 



22 JUSTICE ACT I 

WiSTER. [To Walter] From Scotland Yard, sir. 
Detective-Sergeant Wister. 

Walter. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my 
father. 

He goes into the partners^ room. James enters. 

James. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture 
from Cokeson] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I 
felt I could. Open that door. [Sweedle, wondering 
and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. 

As Falder comes shrinkinghj out, the detective, 
in obedience to a sign from James, slips his 
hand out and grasps his arm. 

Falder. [Recoiling] Oh! no, — oh! no! 
Wister. Come, come, there's a good lad. 
James. I charge him with felony. 
Falder. Oh, sir! There's some one — I did it for 
her. Let me be till to-morrow. 

James motions with his hand. At that sign of 
hardness, Falder becomes rigid. Then, 
turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's 
grip. James follows, stiff and erect. Swee- 
dle, rushing to the door with open mouth, 
pursues them through the outer office into the 
corridor. When they have all disappeared 
Cokeson spins completely round and makes 
a rush for the outer office. 

Cokeson. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we 
doing ? 



JUSTICE 23 

There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief 
and mops the sweat from his face. Going 
back blindly to his table, sits down, and 
stares blankly at his lunch. 

The curtain falls. 



ACT II 

A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon — 
crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, 
and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is 
Falder, with a warder on either side of him, placed 
there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent 
to and unconscious of his presence. Falder is 
sitting exactly opposite to the Judge, who, raised 
above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious 
of and indifferent to everything. Harold Cleaver, 
the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish 
man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost 
to the colour of his face. Hector Frome, the 
counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean- 
shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, 
having already given their evidence, are James and 
Walter How, and Cowley, the cashier. Wister, 
the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. 

Cleaver. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! 

Gathering his robes together, he sits down. 

Frome. [Rising and bowing to the Judge] If it please 

your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not 

going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered 

25 



26 JUSTICE ACT n 

this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence 
as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that 
you would not be justified in finding that he was 
responsible for his actions at the time. I am going 
to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment 
of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused 
by the violent distress under which he was labouring. 
Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. 
I shall call before you a woman from whom you will 
learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear 
from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, 
the still more tragic infatuation with which she has 
inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has 
been leading a miserable existence with a husband who 
habitually ill-uses' her, from whom she actually goes in 
terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's 
either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love 
with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue 
her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying any- 
thing of the sort. But we all know the power of the 
passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, 
gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married 
to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power 
to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence 
besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to 
obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear 
that her husband is guilty. 

Judge. Is this relevant, ]\Ir. Frome ? 

Frome. My lord, I submit, extremely — I shall be 
able to show your lordship that directly. 



ACT 11 JUSTICE 27 

Judge. Very well. 

Frome. In these circumstances, what alternatives 
were left to her? She could either go on living with 
this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply 
to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, 
my experience of such cases assures me that this would 
have given her very insufficient protection from the 
violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very 
likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or 
the streets — for it's not easy, as she is now finding, 
for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood 
to support herself and her children without resorting 
either to the Poor Law or — to speak quite plainly — to 
the sale of her body. 

Judge. You are ranging rather fstr, Mr. Frome. 

Frome. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my 
lord. 

Judge. Let us hope so. 

Frome. Now, gentlemen, mark — and this is what 
I have been leading up to — this woman will tell you, 
and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted 
with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on 
himself, knowing the feeling with which she had 
inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by 
going with him to a new country, where they would 
both be unknown, and might pass as husband and 
wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. 
Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; 
but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were con- 
stantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse 



28 JUSTICE 



ACT n 



for another, and those who are never hkely to be 
faced by such a situation possibly have the right to 
hold up their hands — as to that I prefer to say nothing. 
But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part 
of the prisoner's story — whatever opinion you form of 
the right of these two young people under such cir- 
cumstances to take the law into their own hands — 
the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, 
and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so 
devotedly attached to her, did conceive this — if you like 
— reprehensible design of going away together. Now, 
for that, of course, they required money, and — they 
had none. As to the actual events of the morning of 
July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events 
on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsi- 
bility — I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, 
through the lips of my witnesses. Robert Cokeson. 
[He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and 
waits.] 

Cokeson is summoned into court, and goes into 
the witness-box, holding his hat before him. 
The oath is administered to him. 

Frome. What is your name ? 

Cokeson. Robert Cokeson. 

Frome. Are you managing clerk to the firm of 
solicitors who employ the prisoner? 

Cokeson. Ye-es. 

Frome. How long had the prisoner been in their 
employ ? 



ACT 11 



JUSTICE 29 



CoKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there — all 
but seventeen days. 

Frome. Had you him under your eye all that 
time? 

CoKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. 

Frome. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you 
have to say about his general character during those 
two years. 

CoKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a 
little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant- 
spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him — 
quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me 
when he did a thing like that. 

Frome. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his 
honesty ? 

CoKESoN. No! To have dishonesty in our office, 
that'd never do. 

Frome. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, 
Mr. Cokeson. 

CoKESON. Every man of business knows that 
honesty's the sign qua non. 

Frome. Do you give him a good character all 
round, or do you not ? 

Cokeson. [Turning to the Judge] Certainly. We 
were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this 
happened. Quite upset me. 

Frome. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of 
July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. 
What have you to say about his demeanour that 
morning ? 



30 JUSTICE ACT II 

CoKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't 
think he was quite compos when he did it. 

The Judge. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he 
was insane ? 

CoKESON, Not compos. 

The Judge. A Httle more precision, please. 

Frome. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. 

Cokeson. [Someivhat outraged] Well, in my opinion 
— [looking at the Judge] — such as it is — he was jumpy 
at the time. The jury will understand my meaning. 

Frome. Will you tell us how you came to that 
conclusion ? 

Cokeson. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in 
from the restaurant, a chop and a potato— saves 
time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. 
Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it 
hot; so I went into the clerks' oflSce and I handed 
the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to 
get change, I noticed young Falder walking up and 
down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological 
Gardens, Falder." 

Frome. Do you remember what he answered ? 

Cokeson. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck 
me as funny. 

Frome. Did you notice anything else peculiar ? 

Cokeson. I did. 

Frome. What was that ? 

Cokeson. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like 
a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your 
collar's unbuttoned." 



ACT II JUSTICE 31 

Frome. And what did he answer ? 

CoKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. 

The Judge. Stared at you ? Isn't that a very 
common practice ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I 
can't explain my meaning — it was funny. 

Frome. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes 
before ? 

CoKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to 
the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in 
our profession. 

The Judge. Did you speak to them on that oc- 
casion ? 

CoKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to 
trouble them about prime facey evidence. 

Frome. But it made a very distinct impression on 
your mind ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told 
you the same. 

Frome. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've 
not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning 
on which the discovery of the forgery was made ? 
That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that 
morning ? 

CoKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little 
deaf. 

Frome. Was there anything in the course of that 
morning — I mean before the discovery — that caught 
your attention ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es — a woman. 



32 JUSTICE ACT u 

The Judge. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome ? 

Frome. I am trying to establish the state of mind 
in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. 

The Judge. I quite appreciate that. But this was 
long after the act. 

Frome. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my 
contention. 

The Judge. Well! 

Frome. You say a woman. Do you mean that she 
came to the office ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es. 

Frome. What for ? 

CoKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out 
at the moment. 

Frome. Did you see her.-* 

CoKESON. I did. 

Frome. Did she come alone ? 

Cokeson. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me 
in a difficulty, I mustn't tell you what the office- 
boy told me. 

Frome, Quite so, Mr, Cokeson, quite so 

Cokeson. [Breaking in with an air of " You are 
young — leave it to me"] But I think we can get 
round it. In answer to a question put to her by a 
third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, 
sir." 

The Judge. What are ? What were ? 

Cokeson. Her children. They were outside. 

The Judge. How do you know ? 

Cokeson. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I 



ACT II JUSTICE 33 

shall have to tell you what I was told — and that'd 
never do. 

The Judge. [Smiling] The office-boy made a state- 
ment. 

CoKESON. Egg-zactly. 

Frome. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is 
this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did 
the woman say anything that you specially remem- 
ber.? 

Cokeson. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to 
complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir. 

Frome. Or did she not ? 

Cokeson. She did. I shouldn't like you to have 
led me to the answer. 

Frome. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the 
jury what it was ? 

Cokeson. "It's a matter of life and death." 

Foreman op the Jury. Do you mean the woman 
said that? 

Cokeson. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you 
like to have said to you. 

Frome. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in 
while she was there? [Cokeson nods] And she saw 
him, and went away ? 

Cokeson. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't 
see her go. 

Frome. Well, is she there now ? 

Cokeson. [With an indulgent smile] No! 

Frome. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down. 

Cleaver. [Rising] You say that on the morning of 



34 JUSTICE ACT n 

the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, 
what precisely do you mean by that word ? 

CoKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. 
Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master ? He 
was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. 

Cleaver. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. 
You called them "funny." What are we to under- 
stand by that ? Strange, or what ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es, funny. 

Cleaver. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be 
funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. 
Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or 
what ? 

CoKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give 
you the word, and you want me to give you another. 

Cleaver. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean 
mad? 

CoKEsoN. Not mad, fun 

Cleaver. Very well! Now you say he had his 
collar unbuttoned .'' Was it a hot day ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. 

Cleaver. And did he button it when you called 
his attention to it ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. 

Cleaver. Would you say that that denoted in- 
sanity ? 

He sits down. Cokeson, who has opened his 
mouth to reply, is left gaping. 

Frome. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him 
in that dishevelled state before ? 



ACT II 



JUSTICE 35 



CoKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. 
Frome. That will do, thank you. 

CoKEsoN turns blandly to the Judge, as though 
to rebuke counsel for not remembering that 
the Judge might wish to have a chance; 
arriving at the conclusion that he is to be 
asked nothing further, he turns and descends 
from the box, and sits down next to James 
aiid Walter. 

Frome. Ruth Honeywill. 

Ruth comes into court, and takes her stand 
stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. 

Frome. What is your name, please ? 

Ruth. Ruth Honeywill. 

Frome. How old are you ? 

Ruth. Twenty-six. 

Frome. You are a married woman, living with your 
husband ? A little louder. 

Ruth. No, sir; not since July. 

Frome. Have you any children .-' 

Ruth. Yes, sir, two. 

Frome. Are they living with you ? 

Ruth. Yes, sir. 

Frome. You know the prisoner? 

Ruth. [Looking at him] Yes. 

Frome. What was the nature of your relations with 
him? 

Ruth. We were friends. 

The Judge. Friends? 



36 JUSTICE ACT n 

Ruth. [Simply] Lovers, sir. 

The Judge. [Sharply] In what sense do you use 
that word ? 

Ruth. We love each other. 

The Judge. Yes, but 

Ruth. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship — not 
yet. 

The Judge. Not yet! H'm! [He looks from Ruth 
to Falder] Well! 

Frome. What is your husband.'' 

Ruth. Traveller. 

Frome. And what was the nature of your married 
life? 

Ruth. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking 
about. 

Frome. Did he ill-treat you, or what ? 

Ruth. Ever since my first was born. 

Frome. In what way? 

Ruth. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. 

The Judge. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. 

Ruth. [Pointing to Falder] He offered to take me 
out of it, sir. We were going to South America. 

Frome. [Hastily] Yes, quite — and what prevented 
you? 

Ruth. I was outside his office when he was taken 
away. It nearly broke my heart. 

Frome. You knew, then, that he had been arrested ? 

Ruth. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, 
and [pointing to Cokeson] that gentleman told me all 
about it. 



ACT II JUSTICE 37 

Frome. Now, do you remember the morning of 
Friday, July 7th ? 

Ruth. Yes. 

Frome. Why? 

Ruth. My husband nearly strangled me that 
morning. 

The Judge. Nearly strangled you! 

Ruth. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. 

Frome. With his hands, or ? 

Ruth. Yes, I just managed to get away from 
him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight 
o'clock. 

The Judge. In the morning ? Your husband was 
not under the influence of liquor then ? 

Ruth. It wasn't always that. 

Frome. In what condition were you ? 

Ruth. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was 
torn, and I was half choking. 

Frome. Did you tell your friend what had hap- 
pened ? 

Ruth. Yes. I wish I never had. 

Frome. It upset him ? 

Ruth. Dreadfully. 

Frome. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? 

Ruth. Never. 

Frome. Did he ever give you any money ? 

Ruth. Yes. 

Frome. When was that ? 

Ruth. On Saturday. 

Frome. The 8th ? 



38 JUSTICE ACT II 

Ruth. To buy an outfit for me and the children, 
and get all ready to start. 

Frome. Did that surprise you, or not ? 

Ruth. What, sir? 

Frome, That he had money to give you. 

Ruth. Yes, because on the morning when my 
husband nearly killed me my friend cried because 
he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me 
afterwards he'd come into a windfall. 

Frome. And when did you last see him ? 

Ruth. The day he was taken away, sir. It was 
the day we were to have started. 

Frome. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, 
did you see him at all between the Friday and that 
morning ? [Ruth nods] What was his manner then ? 

Ruth. Dumb-like — sometimes he didn't seem able 
to say a word. 

Frome." As if something unusual had happened to 
him? 

Ruth. Yes. 

Frome. Painful, or pleasant, or what? 

Ruth. Like a fate hanging over him. 

Frome. [Hesitati7ig] Tell me, did you love the pris- 
oner very much ? 

Ruth. [Bowing her head] Yes. 

Frome. And had he a very great affection for you ? 

Ruth. [Looking at Falder] Yes, sir. 

Frome. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think 
that your danger and unhappiness would seriously 
affect his balance, his control over his actions ? 



ACT II JUSTICE 39 

Ruth. Yes. 

Frome. His reason, even ? 

Ruth. For a moment like, I think it would. 

Frome. Was he very much upset that Friday morn- 
ing, or was he fairly calm ? 

Ruth. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to 
let him go from me. 

Frome. Do you still love him ? 

Ruth. [With her eyes on Falder] He's ruined 
himself for me. 

Frome. Thank you. 

He sits down. Hwrn remains stoically upright 
in the witness-box. 

Cleaver. [In a considerate voice] When you left 
him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not 
say that he was out of his mind, I suppose ? 

Ruth. No, sir. 

Cleaver. Thank you; I've no further questions to 
ask you. 

Ruth. [Bending a little forward to the jnry] I would 
have done the same for him; I would indeed. 

The Judge. Please, please! You say your married 
life is an unhappy one ? Faults on both sides ? 

Ruth. Only that I never bowed down to him. I 
don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that. 

The Judge. You refused to obey him ? 

Ruth. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied 
him to keep things nice. 

The Judge. Until you met the prisoner — was 
that it ? 



40 JUSTICE ACT n 

Ruth. No; even after that. 

The Judge. I ask, you know, because you seem to 
me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. 

Ruth. [Hesitating] I — I do. It's the only thing in 
my life now. 

The Judge, [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, 
please. 

Ruth looks at Falder, then passes quietly 
down and takes her seat among the witnesses. 

Fkome. I call the prisoner, my lord. 

Falder leaves the dock; goes into the tvitness- 
hox, and is duly sworn. 

Frome. What is your name ? 

Falder. William Falder. 

Frome. And age? 

Falder. Twenty-three. 

Frome. You are not married? 

Falder shakes his head. 

Frome. How long have you known the last witness ? 

Falder. Six months. 

Frome. Is her account of the relationship between 
you a correct one ? 

Falder. Yes. 

Frome. You became devotedly attached to her, 
however ? 

Falder. Yes. 

The Judge. Though you knew she was a married 
woman ? 

Falder. I couldn't help it, your lordship. 

The Judge. Couldn't help it ? 



ACT II JUSTICE 41 

Falder. I didn't seem able to. 

The Judge slightly shrugs his shoulders. 

Frome. How did you come to know her? 

Falder. Through my married sister. 

Frome. Did you know whether she was happy with 
her husband ? 

Falder. It was trouble all the time. 

Frome. You knew her husband ? 

Falder. Only through her — he's a brute. 

The Judge. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of 
a person not present. 

Frome. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To 
Falder] You admit altering this cheque ? 

Falder bows his head. 

Frome. Carry your mind, please, to the morning 
of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened. 

Falder. [Turning to the jury] I was having my 
breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, 
and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her 
breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round 
her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had 
got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and 
then when she told me, I felt — I felt — well — it was too 
much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, 
having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt 
the same, I know. 

Frome. Yes ? 

Falder. When she left me — because I had to go 
to the oflSce — I was out of my senses for fear that 
he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I 



42 JUSTICE ACT II 

couldn't work — all the morning I was like that — 
simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't 
think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When 
Davis — the other clerk — gave me the cheque — he said : 
"It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. 
You seem half off your chump this morning." Then 
when I had it in my hand — I don't know how it came, 
but it just flashed across me that if I put the t y and 
the nought there would be the money to get her away. 
It just came and went — I never thought of it again. 
Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't 
really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque 
through to the cashier under the rail. I remember 
his saying "Gold or notes?" Theft I suppose I knew 
what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted 
to chuck myself under a 'bus; I wanted to throw the 
money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought 
at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took 
for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, 
and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've 
restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was 
I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do 
differently ! 

Falder is silent, hoisting his hands before 
him. 

Frome. How far is it from your office to the bank? 

Falder. Not more than fifty yards, sir. 

Frome. From the time Davis went out to lunch to 
the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say 
it must have been ? 



ACT II 



JUSTICE 43 



Falder. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, be- 
cause I ran all the way. 

Frome. During those four minutes you say you 
remember nothing? 

Falder. No, sir; only that I ran. 

Frome. Not even adding the t y and the nought ? 

Falder. No, sir. I don't really. 

Frome sits down, and Cleaver rises. 

Cleaver. But you remember running, do you ? 

Falder. I was all out of breath when I got to the 
bank. 

Cleaver. And you don't remember altering the 
cheque ? 

Falder. [Faintbj] No, sir. 

Cleaver. Divested of the romantic glamour which 
my friend is casting over the case, is this anything 
but an ordinary forgery ? Come. 

Falder. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. 

Cleaver. Now, now! You don't deny that the 
t y and the nought were so like the rest of the hand- 
writing as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? 

Falder. It was an accident. 

Cleaver. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't 
it ? On which day did you alter the counterfoil ? 

Falder. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday 
morning. 

Cleaver. Was that an accident too ? 

Falder. [Faintly] No. 

Cleaver. To do that you had to watch your oppor- 
tunity, I suppose? 



44 JUSTICE 



ACT II 



Falder. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. 

Cleaver. You don't suggest that you were suffering 
under great excitement when you did that ? 

Falder. I was haunted. 

Cleaver. With the fear of being found out ? 

Falder. [Very low] Yes. 

The Judge. Didn't it occur to you that the only 
thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, 
and restore the money ? 

Falder. I was afraid. [There is silence. 

Cleaver. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete 
your design of taking this woman away ? 

Falder. When I found I'd done a thing like that, 
to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might 
just as well have chucked myself into the river. 

Cleaver. You knew that the clerk Davis was about 
to leave England — didn't it occur to you when you 
altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on 
him? 

Falder. It was all done in a moment. I thought 
of it afterwards. 

Cleaver. And that didn't lead you to avow what 
you'd done ? 

Falder. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got 
out there — I would have repaid the money. 

The Judge. But in the meantime your innocent 
fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. 

Falder. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. 
I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find 
it out so soon. 



ACT II JUSTICE 45 

Frome. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. 
Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till 
after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been 
made only one day later Falder himself would have 
left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and 
not to Davis, from the beginning. 

The Judge. The question is whether the prisoner 
knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not 
on Davis. [To Falder sharply] Did you know that 
Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis 
had sailed ? 

Falder. I — I — thought — he 

The Judge. Now speak the truth — yes or no! 

Falder. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means 
of knowing. 

The Judge. That disposes of your point, Mr. 
Frome. 

[Frome bows to the Judge. 

Cleaver. Has any aberration of this nature ever 
attacked you before ? 

Falder. [Faintly] No, sir. 

Cleaver. You had recovered sufficiently to go back 
to your work that afternoon ? 

Falder. Yes, I had to take the money back. 

Cleaver. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits 
were sufficiently keen/ for you to remember that ? 
And you still persist in saying you don't remember 
altering this cheque. [He sits down. 

Falder. If I hadn't been mad I should never 
have had the courage. 



46 JUSTICE ACT n 

Frome. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before 
going back ? 

Falder. I never ate a thing all day; and at night 
I couldn't sleep. 

Frome. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed 
between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: 
do you say that you recollect nothing during those four 
minutes ? 

Falder. [After a moment] I remember thinking of 
Mr. Cokeson's face. 

Frome. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any 
connection with what you were doing ? 

Falder. No, sir. 

Frome. Was that in the office, before you ran 
out.? 

Falder. Yes, and while I was running. 

Frome. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will 
you have gold or notes?" 

Falder. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself 
— and it was too late. 

Frome. Thank you. That closes the evidence for 
the defence, my lord. 

The Judge nods, and Falder goes back to 
his seat in the dock. 

Frome. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship 
— Gentlemen of the Jury, — My friend in cross-examina- 
tion has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence 
which has been set up in this case, and I am free to 
admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evi- 
dence has not already convinced you that the prisoner 



ACT II JUSTICE 47 

committed this act in a moment when to all practical 
intents and purposes he was not responsible for his 
actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, 
arising from the violent emotional agitation under which 
he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary 
madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic 
glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. 
Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have 
merely shown you the background of "life" — that 
palpitating life which, believe me — whatever my friend 
may say — always lies behind the commission of a crime. 
Now gentlemen, we live in a highly civilized age, 
and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very 
strange way, even when we have no personal interest 
in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a 
woman whom we love — what then ? Just think of 
what your own feelings would have been, each of you, 
at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! 
he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person 
likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross 
violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly at- 
tached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a 
strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just 
the sort of man who would easily become the prey of 
his emotions. You have heard the description of his 
eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny" — / 
think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of 
those who are strained to breaking-point than any other 
word which could have been used. I don't pretend, 
mind you, that his mental irresponsibility was more 



48 JUSTICE ACT n 

than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion 
became lost; but I do contend, that, just as a man who 
destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often 
is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of 
self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit 
other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, 
and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal 
intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a 
plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for 
discretion. But here you have a case in which there 
is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You 
heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during 
those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? *'I 
thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man 
could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped 
with truth. You have seen the great affection (legiti- 
mate or not) existing between him and this woman, 
who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her 
life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the 
morning when he committed this act. We well know 
what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak 
and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a 
moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a 
stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug 
to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing 
more tragic in hfe than the utter impossibility of chang- 
ing what you have done. Once this cheque was 
altered and presented, the work of four minutes — four 
mad minutes — the rest has been silence. But in those 
four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a 



ACT II • JUSTICE 49 

door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never 
again quite lets a man go — the cage of the Law. His 
further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the 
counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence 
— not of deliberate and guilty intention when he com- 
mitted the prime act from which these subsequent acts 
arose; no — they are merely evidence of the weak char- 
acter which is clearly enough his misfortune. But 
is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a 
weak character ? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner 
are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human 
insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not 
criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated 
as though he were a criminal type,'he will, as all experi- 
ence shows, in all probability become one. I beg you 
not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into 
prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is 
a machine that, when some one has once given it the 
starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be 
ground to pieces under this machine for an act which 
at the worst was one of weakness ? Is he to become 
a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, 
ill-starred ships called prisons ? Is that to be his 
voyage — from which so few return ? Or is he to have 
another chance, to be still looked on as one who has 
gone a little astray, but who will come back ? I urge 
you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, 
as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irre- 
trievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved 
now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I aflfirm to you 



50 JUSTICE 



ACT II 



that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the 
manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. 
Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he 
has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. 
He has lain in prison under this charge for more than 
two months. Is he likely ever to forget that ? Imagine 
the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had 
his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The 
rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy 
began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are 
now already at the second stage. If you permit it 
to go on to the third I would not give — that for him. 

He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a 

circle, drops his hand, and sits down. 

The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; 

then they turn towards the counsel for the 

Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a 

spot that seems to give him satisfaction, 

slides them every now and then towards 

the jury. 

Cleaver. May it please your lordship — [Rising on 

his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury, — The facts in this 

case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will 

allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't propose to 

waste the time of the Court by taking you over the 

evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. 

Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to me than 

it is to you why this rather — what shall we call it? — 

bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative would 

have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the 



ACT n JUSTICE 51 

prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had 
to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. Instead of 
that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found 
this — er — peculiar plea, which has enabled him to 
show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box — 
to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I com- 
pliment my friend; I think it highly ingenious of him. 
By these means, he has — to a certain extent — got round 
the Law. He has brought the whole story of motive 
and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he 
would not otherwise have been able to do. But when 
you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have 
grasped everything. [With good-humoured contempt] 
For look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower 
than that. You have heard the woman. She has 
every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she 
say ? She said that the prisoner was not insane when 
she left him in the morning. If he were going out of 
his mind through distress, that was obviously the mo- 
ment when insanity 'would have shown itself. You 
have heard the managing clerk, another witness for 
the defence. With some difficulty I elicited from him 
the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy (a word 
that he seemed to think you would understand, gen- 
tlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do), was not mad 
when the cheque was handed to Davis. I agree with 
my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got 
Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words 
with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he 
obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, 



52 JUSTICE ACT II 

or he woula not have remembered those words. The 
cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses 
when he cashed it. We have therefore the plea that a 
man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at 
fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding 
the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between 
those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so 
peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to weary 
you with further argument. You will form your own 
opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way 
of saying a great deal to you — and very eloquently — 
on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I 
might point out, however, that the offence with which the 
prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to 
our law; and there are certain features in this case, 
such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on 
his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this 
married woman, which will render it difficult for you to 
attach too much importance to such pleading. I ask 
you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty 
which, in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortu- 
nately, bound to record. 

Letting his eyes travel from the Judge and 
the jury to Frome, he sits down. 
The Judge. [Bending a little towards the jury, and 
speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you 
have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. 
My only business is to make clear to you the issues you 
have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the 
alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the pris- 



ACT 11 JUSTICE 53 

oner. The defence set up is that he was not in a re- 
sponsible condition when he committed the crime. 
Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the 
evidence of the other witnesses — so far as it bears on 
the point of insanity. If you think that what you have 
heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane 
at the time of the forgery, you will jBnd him guilty, 
but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from 
what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was 
sane — and nothing short of insanity will count — ^you 
will find him guilty. In reviewing the testimony as 
to his mental condition you must bear in mind very 
carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct 
both before and after the act of forgery — the evidence 
of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness — er 
— Cokeson, and — er — of the cashier. And in regard 
to that I especially direct your attention to the prisoner's 
admission that the idea of adding the t y and the nought 
did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque 
was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the 
counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. 
The bearing of all this on the question of premeditation 
(and premeditation will imply sanity) is very obvious. 
You must not allow any considerations of age or tempta- 
tion to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. 
Before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane 
you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the 
condition of his mind was such as would have qualified 
him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses; 
then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire 



54 JUSTICE ACT II 

or no, addsi\ You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to 
do so. 

The jury retire by a door behind the Judge. 
The Judge bends over his notes. Falder, 
leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his 
solicitor, pointing down at Ruth. The so- 
licitor in turn speaks to Frome. 

Frome. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very 
anxious that I should ask you if your lordship would 
kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name 
of the woman witness in the Press reports of these 
proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the 
consequences might be extremely serious to her. 

The Judge. [Pointedly — with the suspicion of a 
smile] Well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this 
course which involved bringing her here. 

Frome. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship 
thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any 
other ^ay ? 

The Judge. H'm! Well. 

Frome. There is very real danger to her, your 
lordship. 

The Judge. You see, I have to take your word for 
all that. 

Frome. If your lordship would be so kind. I can 
assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating. 

The Judge. It goes very much against the grain 
with me that the name of a witness should ever be 
suppressed. [With a glance at Falder, who is gripping 
and clasping his hands before him, and then at Ruth, 



ACT II 



JUSTICE 55 



who is sitting perfectly rigid xcitli her eyes fixed on 
Falder] I'll consider your application. It must de- 
pend. I have to remember that she may have come 
here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. 

Frome. Your lordship, I really 

The Judge. Yes, yes — I don't suggest anything of 
the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. 
As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and 
file back into the box. 

Clerk of Assize. Gentlemen, are you agreed on 
your verdict ? 

Foreman. We are. 

Clerk of Assize. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but in- 
sane? 

Foreman. Guilty. 

The Judge nods; then, gathering up his notes, 
sits looking at Falder, who stands motion- 
less. 

Frome. {Rising^ If your lordship would allow me 
to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't 
know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to 
what I have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's 
youth, and the great stress under which he acted. 

The Judge. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. 

Frome. If your lordship says so — I do most earnestly 
beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. 

[He sits down. 

The Judge. [To the Clerk] Call upon him. 

The Clerk. Prisoner at the bar, you stand con- 
victed of felony. Have you anything to say for yourself. 



56 JUSTICE 



ACT II 



why the Court should not give you judgment according 
to law ? [Falder shakes his head. 

The Judge. William Falder, you have been given 
fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found 
guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; then, consulting his 
notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you were 
not responsible for your actions at the moment of 
committing this crime. There is no doubt, I think, 
that this was a device to bring out at first hand the 
nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. For 
throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making 
an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence 
of course enabled him to put in some evidence that 
might weigh in that direction. Whether he was well 
advised to do so is another matter. He claimed that 
you should be treated rather as a patient than as a 
criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end 
amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on 
an indictment of the march of Justice, which he prac- 
tically accused of confirming and completing the process 
of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should 
allow weight to his appeal, I have a number of factors 
to take into account. I have to consider on the one 
hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate 
way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, 
the danger you caused to an innocent man — and that, 
to my mind, is a very grave point — and finally I have 
to consider the necessity of deterring others from follow- 
ing your example. On the other hand, I have to bear 
in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto 



ACT II 



JUSTICE 57 



borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe 
your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of 
some emotional excitement vphen you committed this 
crime. I have every wish, consistently with my duty — 
not only to you, but to the community — to treat you 
with leniency. And this brings me to what are the 
determining factors in my mind in my consideration 
of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office — that 
is a very serious element in this case; there can be no 
possible excuse made for you on the ground that you 
were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime 
you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. 
It is said, however, that you were carried away by 
your emotions. The story has been told here to-day of 
your relations with this — er — Mrs. Honey will; on that 
story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in ef- 
fect based. Now what is that story ? It is that you, 
a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily 
married, had formed an attachment, which you both 
say — with what truth I am unable to gauge — had not 
yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both 
admit was about to result in such relationship. Your 
counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the 
ground that the woman is in what he describes, I 
think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can 
express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the 
fact is patent that you committed this crime with the 
view of furthering an immoral design. Now, how- 
ever I might wish, I am not able to justify to my con- 
science a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to 



58 JUSTICE ACT n 

morality. It is vitiated ab initio, and would, if success- 
ful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. 
Your counsel has made an attempt to trace your 
offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in 
the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show 
that to punish you with further imprisonment would 
be unjust. I do not follow him in these flights. The 
Law is what it is — a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, 
each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned 
only with its administration. The crime you have 
committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in 
accordance with my duty to Society to exercise the pow- 
ers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servi- 
tude for three years. 

Falder, who throughout the Judge's speech 

has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall 

forward on his breast. Ruth starts up 

from her seat as he is taken out hj the warders. 

There is a bustle in court. 

The Judge. [Speaking to the reporters} Gentlemen 

of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness 

should not be reported. 

The reporters bow their acquiescence. 
The Judge. [ To Ruth, who is staring in the direction 
in which Falder has disappeared] Do you understand, 
your name will not be mentioned ? 

Cokeson. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking 

to you. 

Ruth turns, stares at the Judge, and turns 

away. 



ACT II JUSTICE 59 

The Judge. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the 
next case. 

Clerk of Assize. [To a warder] Put up John 
Booley. 

To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": 

The curtain falls. 



ACT III 

SCENE I 

A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large 
barred windows, overlooking the prisoners'' exercise 
yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with 
arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single 
file at a distance of four yards from each other, 
walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked 
on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in 
blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are 
stationed amongst them. The room has distempered 
walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking 
books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of 
the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with 
documents. It is Christmas Eve. 

The Governor, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, 
fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled 
hair, receding from the temples, is standing close 
to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw 
made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which 
he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. 
The chief warder, Wooder, a tall, thin, military- 
61 



62 JUSTICE ACT III 

looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and 
melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright 
two paces from him. 

The Governor. [With a faint, abstracted smile] 
Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you 
find it ? 

Wooder. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come 
across such a thing for two years now. 

The Governor. [With curiosity] Had he any set 
plan? 

Wooder. He'd sawed his window-bar about that 
much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of 
an inch apart] 

The Governor. I'll see him this afternoon. What's 
his name ? Moaney ! An old hand, I think ? 

Wooder. Yes, sir — fourth spell of penal. You'd 
think an old ^ag like him would have had more sense 
by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind, 
he said. Breaking in and breaking out — that's all 
they think about. 

The Governor. Who's next him ? 

Wooder. O'Cleary, sir. 

The Governor. The Irishman. 

Wooder. Next him again there's that young fellow, 
Falder — star class — and next him old Clipton. 

The Governor. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I 
want to see him about his eyes. 

Wooder. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know 
when there's one of these tries at escape going on. 



sc. I JUSTICE 63 

It makes them restive — there's a regular wave going 
through them just now. 

The Governor. [Meditatively] Odd things — those 
waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising] 
Seem quiet enough out here! 

WooDER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging 
on his door this morning. Little thing hke that's 
quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just 
like dumb animals at times. 

The Governor. I've seen it with horses before 
thunder — it'll run right through cavalry lines. 

The prison Chaplain has entered. He is a 
dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, 
with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face 
and sloio, cultured speech. 

The Governor. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, 
Miller ? 

The Chaplain. Useful-looking specimen. 

The Governor. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes 
to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number 
of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on 
them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. 

WooDER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out. 

The Governor. Account for the state of the men 
last day or two, Miller ? Seems going through the 
whole place. 

The Chaplain. No. I don't know of anything. 

The Governor. By the way, will you dine with 
us on Christmas Day .'' 

The Chaplain. To-morrow. Thanks very much. 



64 JUSTICE 



ACT III 



The Governor. Worries me to feel the men dis- 
contented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this 
poor devih Can't help liking a man who tries to 
escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the 
cupboard again] 

The Chaplain. Extraordinary perverted will-power 
— some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. 
The Governor. And not much afterwards, I'm 
afraid. Ground too hard for golf ? 

WooDER comes in again. 
WooDER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks 
to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. 
The Governor. What about ? 
WooDER. Shall I put him off, sir? 
The Governor. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see 
him. Don't go, Miller. 

Wooder motions to some one without, and as 

the visitor comes in withdraws. 
The visitor is Cokeson, who is attired in a thick 
overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and 
carries a top hat. 

Cokeson. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been 
talking to the young man. 

The Governor. We have a good many here. 

Cokeson. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a 
card, and handing it to the Governor] Firm of James 
and Walter How. Well known in the law. 

The Governor. [Receiving the card — with a faint 
smile] What do you want to see me about, sir? 



SC. I 



JUSTICE 65 



CoKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] 
Why! what a sight! 

The Governor. Yes, we have that privilege from 
here; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his 
table] Now, please! 

CoKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the 
wiyidow] I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep 
you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be 
here by rights. His sister came to me — he's got no 
father and mother — and she was in some distress. 
"My husband won't let me go and see him," she 
said; "says he's disgraced the family. And his other 
sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked 
me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He 
was our junior — I go to the same chapel — and I didn't 
like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he 
seems lonely here. 

The Governor. Not unnaturally. 

CoKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see 
a lot of them about working together. 

The Governor. Those are local prisoners. The 
convicts serve their three months here in separate 
confinement, sir. 

Cokeson. But we don't want to be unreasonable. 
He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to 
let him run about with the others. 

The Governor. [With faint amusement] Ring the 
bell — would you. Miller? [To Cokeson] You'd 
like to hear what the doctor says about him, per- 
haps. 



66 JUSTICE ACT m 

The Chaplain. [Ringing the bell] You are not 
accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. 

CoKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite 
a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's 
up," I said, "you'll be out and about with the others; 
it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said 
— like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. 
What's a month .'^ Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he 
said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as 
I do, it's longer than a year outside. I can't help it," 
he said; "I try — but I'm built that way, Mr. Cokeson." 
And he held his hand up to his face. I could see the 
tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. 

The Chaplain. He's a young man with large, 
rather peculiar eyes, isn't he ? Not Church of England, 
I think ? 

Cokeson. No. 

The Chaplain. I know. 

The Governor. [To Wooder, w/to has come in] 
Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a 
minute. [Wooder salutes, and goes oiit] Let's see, 
he's not married ? 

Cokeson. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party 
he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fo. 
It's a sad story. 

The Chaplain. If it wasn't for drink and women, 
sir, this prison might be closed. 

Cokeson. [Looking at the Chaplain over his spec- 
tacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, 
special. He had hopes they'd have let her come 



sc. I JUSTICE 67 

and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked 
me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the 
poor young fellow a lie, with him in here — seemed 
like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him worse. 

The Governor. What was this news then ? 

CoKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, 
spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. Fact 
is, she was going away with our young friend. It's 
not nice — but I've looked over it. Well, when he was 
put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and 
wait for him to come out. That was a great con- 
solation to him. But after a month she came to me — 
I don't know her personally — and she said: "I can't 
earn the children's living, let alone my own — I've got 
no friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's 
way, else my husband 'd get to know where I was. I'm 
very much reduced," she said. And she has lost flesh. 
"I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a painful 
story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've 
got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do 
that I'll spare you a little myself." "Really," she 
said — she's a nice creature — " I don't like to take it from 
you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well, 
I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller — drinks — but I 
didn't like to persuade her not to. 

The Chaplain. Surely, no. 

CoKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the 
poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to 
say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want 
things to be pleasant for him. 



68 JUSTICE 



ACT III 



The Chaplain. [With a touch of impatience] The 
Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid. 

CoKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut 
him up there by himself 11 turn him silly. And nobody 
wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry. 

The Chaplain. It's a very rare thing for them to 
give way like that. 

CoKESON. [Looking at him — in a tone of sudden 
dogged hostility] I keep dogs. 

The Chaplain. Indeed ? 

CoKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut 
one of them up all by himself, month after month, not 
if he'd bit me all over. 

The Chaplain. Unfortunately, the criminal is not 
a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. 

Cokeson. But that's not the way to make him 
feel it. 

The Chaplain. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. 

Cokeson. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 
'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to 
shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. 

The Chaplain. Surely you should allow those who 
have had a little more experience than yourself to know 
what is best for prisoners. 

Cokeson. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, 
I've watched him for years. He's eurotic — got no 
stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm 
thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut 
up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, 
it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you 



sc. I JUSTICE 69 

feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. Cokeson," he said, 
"but sometimes I could beat my head against the 
wall." It's not nice. 

During this speech the Doctor has entered. 
He is a medium-sized, rather good-looking 
man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning 
against the ivindow. 

The Governor. This gentleman thinks the sepa- 
rate is telling on Q 3007 — Falder, young thin fellow, 
star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements ? 

The Doctor. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing 
him any harm. 

Cokeson. But he's told me. 

The Doctor. Of course he'd say so, but we can 
always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been 
here. 

Cokeson. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. 

The Doctor. His mind's all right so far. He's 
nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of 
anything more. I'm watching him carefully. 

Cokeson. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. 

The Chaplain. [More suavely] It's just at this 
period that we are able to make some impression on 
them, sir. I am speaking from my special stand- 
point. 

Cokeson. [Turning bewildered to the Governor] 
I dont want to be unpleasant, but having given him 
this news, I do feel it's awkward. 

The Governor. I'll make a point of seeing him 
to-day. 



70 JUSTICE ACT III 

CoKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought 
perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. 

The Governor. [Rather sharply] If any sign of 
injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported 
at once. That's fully provided for. [He rises. 

CoKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, 
what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having 
seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind. 

The Governor. I think you may safely leave it to 
us, sir. 

CoKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd 
understand me. I'm a plain man — never set myself 
up against authority. [Expanding to the Chaplain] 
Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. 

As he goes out the three officials do not look at 
each other, but their faces wear peculiar 
expressions. 

The Chaplain. Our friend seems to think that 
prison is a hospital. 

Cokeson. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] 
There's just one little thing. This woman — I sup- 
pose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be 
a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her 
all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's 
quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You 
couldn't make an exception ? 

The Governor. [Wearily] As you say, my dear 
sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be al- 
lowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict 
prison. 



sc. II JUSTICE 71 

CoKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have 

troubled you. [He again goes out. 

The Chaplain. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain 

man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some 

lunch, Clements ? 

He and the Doctor go out talking. 
The Governor, with a sigh, sits down at his 
table and takes up a pen. 

The curtain falls. 



SCENE II 

Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls 
are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe 
of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, 
and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is 
of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a 
heavily barred window at the end. The doors of 
four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little 
round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered 
by a little round disc, tvhich, raised upwards, affords 
a view of the cell. On the wall, close to each cell 
door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's 
name, number, and record. 

Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor 
and second-floor corridors. 

The Warder Instructor, a bearded man in blue 
uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, 
is just emerging from one of the cells. 



72 JUSTICE 



ACT III 



Instructor. [Speaking from the door into the cel[\ 
I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. 

O'Cleary. [Unseeyi — in an Irish voice] Little doubt 
o' that, sirr. 

Instructor. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have 
it than nothing, I s'pose. 
O'Cleary. An' that's the blessed truth. 

Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and 
locked, and of approaching footsteps. 
Instructor. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive 
over it! 

He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. 
The Governor comes walking down the 
corridor, followed by Wooder. 
The Governor. Anything to report ? 
Instructor. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a 
cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks 
to-day. 

The Governor nods and passes on to the end 
cell. The Instructor goes away. 
The Governor. This is our maker of saws, isn't 
it? 

He takes the saw from his pocket as Wooder 
throws open the door of the cell. The convict 
Moaney is seen lying on his bed, athwart 
the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and 
stands in the middle of the cell. He is a 
raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, 
with outstanding bafs ears and fierce, 
staring, steel-coloured eyes. 



sc. 11 JUSTICE 73 

WooDER. Cap off! [MoANEY removes his cap] 
Out here! [Moaney comes to the door. 

The Governor. [Beckoning him out into the corri- 
dor, and holding up the saw — tvith the manner of an 
officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, 
my man? [M.oais!ey is silent] Come! 

Moaney. It passed the time. 

The Governor. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough 
to do, eh ? 

Moaney. It don't occupy your mind. 

The Governor. [Tapping the saw] You might find 
a better way than this. 

Moaney. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must 
keep my hand in against the time I get out. What's 
the good of anything else to me at my time of life ? 
[With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue ivarms] 
Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or 
two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace 
meself when I'm out. Yoiive got your pride keeping 
the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that 
the Governor is listening with interest, he goes on, 
pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. 
It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that 
saw — a bit of all right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I 
suppose, or seven days' bread and water. You can't 
help it, sir, I know that — I quite put meself in your 
place. 

The Governor. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass 
it over will you give me your word not to try it on 



74 JUSTICE ACT ra 

again? Think! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end 
of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] 
The Governor. [Returning] Well ? 
MoANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another 
six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and 
think o' nothing. I must have something to interest me. 
You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I can't 
pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive 
a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four 
hours' steady work would have done it. 

The Governor. Yes, and what then ? Caught, 
brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work 
to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they 
put a new bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney ? 
MoANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. 
The Governor. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, 
well! Two days' cells — bread and water. 
Moaney. Thank 'e, sir. 

He turns quickly like an animal and slips into 

his cell. 
The Governor looks after him and shakes 
his head as Wooder closes and locks the 
cell door. 
The Governor. Open Clipton's cell. 

Wooder opens the door of Clipton's cell. 
Clipton is sitting on a stool just inside the 
door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is 
a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost 
shaven head, and smouldering little dark 
eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up 



sc. 11 JUSTICE 75 

and stands motionless in the doorway, peer- 
ing at his visitors. 
The Governor. [Beckoning] Come out here a min- 
ute, Clipton. 

Clipton, with a sort of dreadful quietness, 
comes into the corridor, the needle and thread 
in his hand. The Governor signs to 
WooDER, who goes into the cell and inspects 
it carefully. 
The Governor. How are your eyes ? 
Clipton. I don't complain of them. I don't see 
the sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding 
his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor, 
as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the cove 
next door here to keep a bit quieter. 

The Governor. What's the matter ? I don't want 
any tales, Clipton. 

Clipton. He keeps me awake. I don't know who 
he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I expect. 
Oughtn't to be here with us. 

The Governor. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. 
He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. 

Clipton. He knocks about like a wild beast in 

the early morning. I'm not used to it — stops me 

getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's not 

fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's 

the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. 

Wooder comes out of the cell, and instantly, as 

though extinguished, Clipton moves with 

stealthy suddenness back into his cell. 



76 JUSTICE ACT in 

WooDER. All right, sir. 

The Governor nods. The door is closed and 
locked. 
The Governor. Which is the man who banged on 
his door this morning? 

WooDER. [Going towards O'Cleary's cell] This one, 
sir; O'Cleary. 

He lifts the disc and glances through the peep- 
hole. 
The Governor. Open. 

WooDER throws open the door. O'Cleary, 
who is seated at a little table by the door as 
if listening, springs up and stands at atten- 
tion just inside the doorway. He is a broad- 
faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, 
flexible mouth, and little holes under his 
high cheek-bones. 
The Governor. Where's the joke, O'Cleary ? 
O'Cleary. The joke, your honour? I've not seen 
one for a long time. 

The Governor. Banging on your door ? 
O'Cleary. Oh! that! 
The Governor. It's womanish. 
O'Cleary. An' it's that I'm becoming this two 
months past. 
The Governor. Anything to complain of ? 
O'Cleary. No, sirr. 

The Governor. You're an old hand; you ought to 
know better. 

O'Cleary. Yes, I've been through it all. 



sc. II JUSTICE 77 

The Governor. You've got a youngster next 
door; you'll upset him. 

O'Cleary. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't 
always be the same steady man. 

The Governor. Work all right? 

O'Cleary. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] 
Oh! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest 
stuff — don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working 
his mouth] It's here I feel it — the want of a little noise — 
a terrible little wud ease me. 

The Governor. You know as well as I do that if 
you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed 
to talk. 

O'Cleary, [With a look of profound meaning] Not 
with my mouth. 

The Governor. Well, then ? 

O'Cleary. But it's the great conversation I'd have. 

The Governor. [With a smile] Well, no more 
conversation on your door. 

O'Cleary. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit 
to repeat meself. 

The Governor. [Turning] Good-night. 

O'Cleary. Good-night, your honour. 

He turns into his cell. The Governor shuts 
the door. 

The Governor. [Looking at the record card] Can't 
help liking the poor blackguard. 

WooDER. He's an amiable man, sir. 

The Governor. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask 
the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder. 



78 JUSTICE ACT III 

WooDER salutes and goes away down the 

corridor. 
The Governor goes to the door of Falder's 
cell. He raises his uninjured hand to un- 
cover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering 
it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, 
after scrutinising the record board, he opens 
the cell door. Falder, who is standing 
against it, lurches forward. 
The Governor. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: 
can't you settle down, Falder ? 

Falder. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. 
The Governor. You know what I mean ? It's no 
good running your head against a stone wall, is it? 
Falder, No, sir. 
The Governor. Well, come. 
Falder. I try, sir. 
The Governor. Can't you sleep ? 
Falder. Very little. Between two o'clock and 
getting up's the worst time. 
The Governor. How's that ? 
Falder. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't 
know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] 
Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel I'll 
never get out as long as I live. 

The Governor. That's morbid, my lad. Pull 
yourself together. 

Falder. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] 

Yes — I've got to 

The Governor. Think of all these other fellows ? 



sc. II JUSTICE 79 

Falder. They're used to it. 

The Governor. They all had to go through it 
once for the first time, just as you're doing now. 

Falder. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in 
time, I suppose. 

The Governor. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! 
That rests with you. Now come. Set your mind 
to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young. 
A man can make himself what he likes. 

Falder. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. 

The Governor. Take a good hold of yourself. Do 
you read ? 

Falder. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his 
head] I know it's no good; but I can't help think- 
ing of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't 
see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. 

The Governor. You've had a visitor. Bad news ? 

Falder. Yes. 

The Governor. You mustn't think about it. 

Falder. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help 
it, sir? 

He suddenly becomes motionless as Wooder 
and the Doctor approach. The Governor 
motions to him to go back into his cell. 

Falder. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my 
head, sir. [He goes back into his cell. 

The Governor. [To the Doctor] Just go in and 
see him, Clements. 

The Doctor goes into the cell. The Gover- 
nor pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and 
walks towards the window. 



80 JUSTICE ACT HI 

WooDER, [Following] Sorry you should be troubled 
like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the 
whole. 

The Governor. [Shortly] You think so ? 

WooDER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my 
opinion. 

The Governor, [To himself] Queer, that! 

WooDER. Beg pardon, sir.'' 

The Governor. Christmas! 

He turns toivards the window, leaving Wooder 
looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. 

Wooder. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show 
enough, sir ? If you'd like us to have more holly ? 

The Governor. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. 

Wooder. Very good, sir. 

The Doctor has come out of Falder's cell, 
and the Governor beckons to him. 

The Governor. Well? 

The Doctor. I can't make anything much of him. 
He's nervous, of course. 

The Governor. Is there any sort of case to report ? 
Quite frankly. Doctor. 

The Doctor. Well, I don't think the separate's 
doing him any good; but then I could say the same 
of a lot of them — they'd get on better in the shops, 
•there's no doubt. 

The Governor. You mean you'd have to recom- 
mend others.? 

The Doctor. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. 
There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [point- 
ing to O'Cleary's cell], for instance — feels it just as 



SC. Ill 



JUSTICE 81 



much, in his way. If I once get away from physical 
facts — I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, 
sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't 
lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes. His pulse 
is good. Talks all right. 

The Governor. It doesn't amount to melancholia ? 

The Doctor. [Shaking his head] I can report on 

him if you like; but if I do I ought to report on others. 

The Governor. I see. [Looking towards Falder's 

cell] The poor devil must just stick it then. 

As he says this he looks absently at Wooder. 
WooDER. Beg pardon, sir ? 

For answer the Governor stares at him, ttirns 
on his heel, and walks away. There is a 
sound as of beating on metal. 
The Governor. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder.? 
Wooder. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we 
should have more of that. 

He hurries forward, passing the Governor, 
who follows closely. 

The curtain falls. 

SCENE III 

Falder's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad 
by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded 
ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. 
The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventila- 
tor, is high up in the middle of the end ivall. In the 



82 JUSTICE 



ACT in 



middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. 
In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled 
up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above 
them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is 
a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in 
a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair- 
brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another 
corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on 
end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, 
and another over the door. Falder's work (a 
shirt to which he is putting buttonholes) is hung to a 
nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which 
the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down 
in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, abovi, 
a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. 
There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes 
beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under 
the window. 

In fast-failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen 
standing motionless, with his head inclined towards 
the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the 
door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He 
stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder 
to hear something, any little thing that is going on 
outside. He springs suddenly upright — as if at a 
sound — and remains perfectly motionless. Then, 
with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands 
looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch 
or two, hairing the air of a man so lost in sadness 



8c. Ill JUSTICE 83 

that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then 
turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moidng 
his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops 
again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of 
his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans 
his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, 
presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, 
tracing his way with his finger along the top line 
of the distemper that runs round the wall. He 
stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of 
one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very 
nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand 
with a clatter — the only sound that has broken the 
silence — and he stands staring intently at the wall 
where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white 
in the darkness — he seems to be seeing somebody or 
something there. There is a sharp tap and click; 
the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned 
up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen 
gasping for breath. 

A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on 
thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks 
back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the 
sound grows, as though some great tumbril xoere 
rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to 
hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch 
nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling 
from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder's 
hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already 



84 JUSTICE ACT III 

pined in this beating, and the sound swells till it 
seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly 
raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he 
flings himself at his door, and beats on it. 

The curtain falls. 



ACT IV 

The scene is again Cokeson's room, at a few minutes to 
ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors 
are all open. Sweedle, now blessed with a sprout- 
ing moustache, is getting the offices ready. He 
arranges papers on Cokeson's table; then goes to a 
covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at hlTn- 
self in the mirror. While he is gazing his fill 
Ruth Honeywill comes in through the outer 
office and stands in the doorway. There seems a 
kind of exultation and excitement behind her ha- 
bitual impassivity. 

Sweedle. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the 
lid of the washstand with a bang] Hello! It's you! 

Ruth. Yes. 

Sweedle. There's only me here! They don't 
waste their time hurrying down in the morning. Why, 
it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing 
you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with 
yourself ? 

Ruth. [Sardonically] Living. 

Sweedle. [Impressed] If you want to see him 
[he points to Cokeson's chair], he'll be here directly 
— never misses — not much. [Delicately] I hope our 
85 



86 JUSTICE ACT IV 

friend's back from the country. His time's been up 
these three months, if I remember. [Ruth nods] I 
was awful sorry about that. The governor made a 
mistake — if you ask me. 

Ruth. He did. 

SwEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. 
And, I say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. 
They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas 
we know. Ruth gives him a honeyed smile. 

SwEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload 
of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell 
up again they complain of it. I know 'em — seen a 
lot of that sort of thing in my time. {He shakes his 
head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other 

day the governor 

But CoKESON has come in through the outer 
office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly 
greyer, 

CoKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! 
it's you! [Then motioning Sweedle out, and closing 
the door] Quite a stranger! Must be two years, 
D'you want to see me ? I can give you a minute. 
Sit down! Family well? 

Ruth. Yes. I'm not living where I was. 

CoKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are 
more comfortable at home. 

Ruth. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. 

CoKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. 
I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. 

Ruth. I've kept the children with me. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 87 

CoKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so 
jolbj as he had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen 
you. You've not heard from the young man, I sup- 
pose, since he came out ? 

Ruth. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. 

CoKESON. I hope he's well. 

Ruth. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get any- 
thing to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just 
skin and bone. 

CoKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm 
sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they 
find him a place when his time was up ? 

Ruth. He was only there three weeks. It got 
out. 

CoKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for 
you. I don't like to be snubby. 

Ruth. I can't bear his being like that. 

CoKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I 
know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Per- 
haps you can do something for him, till he finds his 
feet. 

Ruth. Not now. I could have — but not now. 

CoKESON. I don't understand. 

Ruth. [Proudly] I've seen him again — that's all 
over. 

CoKESON. [Staring at her — disturbed] I'm a family 
man — I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. 
Excuse me — I'm very busy. 

Ruth. I'd have gone home to my people in the 
country long ago, but they've never got over me marry- 



88 JUSTICE ACT IV 

ing Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, 
but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I 
married him. I thought the world of him, of course 
... he used to come travelling to our farm. 

Cokeson. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got 
on better, after you saw me. 

Ruth. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't 
break my nerve, but I lost my health; and then he 
began knocking the children about. ... I couldn't 
stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were 
dying. 

Cokeson. [Who has risen and is shifting about as 
thotigh dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, 
must we ? 

Ruth. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave 
better than that [There is silence. 

Cokeson. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there 
you were! And what did you do then? 

Ruth. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left 
him before . . . making skirts . . . cheap things. It 
was the best I could get, but I never made more than 
ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working 
all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept 
at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for 
that; I wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. 

Cokeson. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like 
that. 

Ruth. It was starvation for the children too — after 
what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I 
used to be too tired. [She is silent. 



Aci IV JUSTICE 89 

CoKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what hap- 
pened then ? 

Ruth. [With a laugh] My employer happened 
then — he's happened ever since. 

CoKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a 
thing Hke this. 

Ruth. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But 
I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to 
quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] 
I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was 
just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in 
there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. 
Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another chance. 

CoKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost 
your livings! What a horrible position! 

Ruth. If he could only get here — where there's 
nothing to find out about him! 

Cokeson. We can't have anything derogative to the 
firm. 

Ruth. I've no one else to go to. 

Cokeson. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't 
think they'll take him, under the circumstances. I 
don't really. 

Ruth. He came with me; he's down there in the 
street. [She points to the windoio. 

Cokeson. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done 
that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on 
her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I 
can't promise anything. 

Ruth. It would be the saving of him. 



90 JUSTICE ACT IV 

CoKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not 
sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till 
I see how things are. Leave your address. 5* [Repeat- 
ing her] 83 MuUingar Street ? [He notes it on blotting- 
paper] Good-morning. 

Ruth. Thank you. 

She moves towards the door, turns as if to 
speak, but does not, and goes away. 

CoKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a 
large white cotton handkerchief] What a business! 
Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. 
SwEEDLE answers it] 

CoKESON. Was that young Richards coming here 
to-day after the clerk's place ? 

SwEEDLE. Yes. 

CoKESoN. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want 
to see him yet. 

SwEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? 

CoKESON. [With asperity] Invent something. Use 
your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. 

SwEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, 
sir? 

CoKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here 
to-day. 

SwEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? 

CoKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remem- 
ber Falder ? I may be having him round to see me. 
Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a 
similar position. 

SwEEDLE. I naturally should do. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 91 

CoKESON. That's right. When a man's down 
never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand 
up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in Ufa. 
It's sound poHcy. 

SwEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take 
him on again, sir? 

CoKEsoN. Can't say anything about that. [At the 
sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's 
there ? 

SwEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's 
Falder, sir. 

CoKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty 

of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want 

He breaks off as Falder comes in. Falder 
is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown 
more restless. His clothes are very worn 
and loose. 

Sweedle, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. 

CoKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. 

[Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's 

striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] 

I don't blame her. She's anxious. 

Falder timidly takes Cokeson's hand and 
glances towards the partners' door. 
Cokeson. No — not yet! Sit down! [Falder sits 
in the chair at the side of Cokeson's table, on which he 
places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to 
give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at 
him over his spectacles] How's your health ? 
Falder. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. 



92 JUSTICE ACT IV 

CoKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. 
About this matter. I don't hke doing anything out 
of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, 
and I want everything smooth and straight. But I 
promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I 
always keep my word. 

Falder. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've 
paid for that job a thousand times and more. I 
have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed 
more when I came out than when I went in. They 
couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here 
[he touches his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till 
last night I'd have thought there was nothing in here 
at all. 

Cokeson. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease ? 

Falder. Oh! they passed me sound enough. 

Cokeson. But they got you a place, didn't they ? 

Falder. Yes; very good people, knew all about 
it — very kind to me. I thought I was going to get 
on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other 
clerks got wind of it. ... I couldn't stick it, Mr. 
Cokeson, I couldn't, sir. 

Cokeson. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! 

Falder. I had one small job after that, but it 
didn't last. 

Cokeson. How was that ? 

Falder. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. 
The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing 
that's all round me. I can't explain it: it's as if I 
was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up there. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 93 

I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; but 
what are you to do ? You must have them. And that 
made me afraid, and 1 left. In fact, I'm — I'm afraid all 
the time now. 

He hows his head and leans dejectedly silent 
over the table. 

CoKESON. I feel for you — I do really. Aren't your 
sisters going to do anything for you ? 

Falder. One's in consumption. And the other 

CoKESON. Ye . . , es. She told me her husband 
wasn't quite pleased with you. 

Falder. When I went there — they were at supper — 
my sister wanted to give me a kiss — I know. But he 
just looked at her, and said : "What have you come for .? " 
Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't you going 
to give me your hand, Jim ? Cis is, I know," I said. 
"Look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd 
better come to an understanding. I've been expecting 
you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen 
pounds to go to Canada with." " I see," I said — "good 
riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." 
Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where 
I have. 

CoKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen 
pound from me ? [Flustered, as Falder regards him 
with a queer smile\ Quite without prejudice; I meant 
it kindly. 

Falder. I'm not allowed to leave the country. 

CoKESON. Oh! ye . . . es — ticket-of-leave ? You 
aren't looking the thing. 



94 JUSTICE 



ACT rv 



Falder. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. 
The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her — I 
feel a different man this morning. I've often thought 
the being fond of her's the best thing about me; it's 
sacred, somehow — and yet it did for me. That's queer, 
isn't it ? 

CoKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. 

Falder. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. 
Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it 
doesn't do to associate with criminals! 

Cokeson. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself 
names. That never did a man any good. Put a 
face on it. 

Falder. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, 
when you're independent. Try it when you're down 
like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. 
Well, I think I've had just a bit over. 

Cokeson. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] 
I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. 

Falder is suddenly still, as if brooding over 
his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. 

Cokeson. You must give them credit for the best 
intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you 
harm, I'm sure. 

Falder. I believe that, Mr, Cokeson. Nobody 
wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. 

This feeling [He stares round him, as though at 

something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden 
impersonality] I know it is. 

Cokeson. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! 



ACT IV JUSTICE 95 

We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often 
had you in my prayers. Now leave it to me. I'll use 
my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. 

[As he speaks the two partners come in. 

CoKESON. [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put 
them all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've 
just been having a talk with this young man. I think 
you'll remember him. 

James. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How 
are you, Falder ? 

Walter. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] 
Very glad to see you again, Falder. 

Falder. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes 
the hand] Thank you, sir. 

CoKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To Falder, 
pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a 
minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be 
coming this morning. His wife's just had a little 
family. 

Falder goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. 

CoKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all 
about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a pre- 
judice against him. And you're not seeing him to 
advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's 
very trying to go without your dinner. 

James. Is that so, Cokeson ? 

CoKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. 
Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. 
There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping 
him in the air. 



96 JUSTICE ACT IV 

James. A gaol-bird in the office, Cokeson ? I 
don't see it. 

Walter. "The roUing of the chariot-wheels of 
Justice!" I've never got that out of my head. 

James. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this 
affair. What's he been doing since he came out ? 

Cokeson. He's had one or two places, but he 
hasn't kept them. He's sensitive — quite natural. 
Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. 

James. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow — never did 
from the first. "Weak character" 's written all over 
him. 

Walter. I think we owe him a leg up. 

James. He brought it all on himself. 

Walter. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't 
quite hold in these days. 

James. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold 
it for all that, my boy. 

Walter. For oneself, yes — not for other people, 
thanks. 

James. Well! I don't want to be hard. 

Cokeson. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems 
to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 
'Tisn't healthy. 

James. What about that woman he was mixed up 
with ? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside 
as we came in. 

Cokeson. That ! Well, I can't keep anything from 
you. He has met her. 

James. Is she with her husband ? 



Aci IV JUSTICE 97 

COKESON. No. 

James. Falder living with her, I suppose ? 

CoKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found 
jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 
'Tisn't my business. 

James. It's our business, if we're going to engage 
him, Cokeson. 

CoKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. 
I've had the party here this morning. 

James. I thought so. [To Walter] No, my dear 
boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! 

Cokeson. The two things together make it very 
awkward for you — I see that. 

Walter. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what 
we have to do with his private life. 

James. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of 
it, or he can't come here. 

Walter. Poor devil! 

Cokeson. Will you have him in? [And as James 
nods] I think I can get him to see reason. 

James. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, Cokeson. 

Walter. [To James, in a low voice, while Cokeson 
is summoning Falder] His whole future may depend 
on what we do, dad. 

Falder comes in. He has pulled himself 
together, and presents a steady front. 

James. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want 
to give you another chance; but there are two things 
I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good 
coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that 



98 JUSTICE ACT IV 

you've been unjustly treated — get rid of it. You can't 
play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot- 
free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody 
would — the sooner you realise that the better. 

Falder. Yes, sir; but — may I say something? 

James. Well? 

Falder. I had a lot of time to think it over in 
prison. [He stops. 

CoKESON, [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. 

Falder. There were all sorts there. And what I 
mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first 
time, and put under somebody that could look after us a 
bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would 
ever have got there. 

James. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very 
grave doubts of that, Falder. 

Falder. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. 

James. My good fellow, don't forget that you be- 
gan it. 

Falder. I never wanted to do wrong. 

James. Perhaps not. But you did. 

Falder. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] 
It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] 
That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. 

James. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. 

CoKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. 

Falder. [Throwing over his caution from the inten- 
sity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. 

James. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, 
and look to the future. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 99 

Falder. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't 
understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. 

He grips his chest. 

CoKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he 
wanted nourishment. 

Walter. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass 
away. Time's merciful. 

Falder. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. 

James. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what 
you've got to do is to put all the past behind you 
and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that 
brings me to the second thing. This woman you were 
mixed up with — you must give us your word, you know, 
to have done with that. There's no chance of your 
keeping straight if you're going to begin your future 
with such a relationship. 

Falder. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted 
expression] But sir . . . but sir . . . it's the one 
thing I looked forward to all that time. And she 
too ... I couldn't find her before last night. 

During this and what follows Cokeson be- 
comes more and more uneasy. 

James. This is painful, Falder. But you must see 
for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to 
close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of 
your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back — 
not otherwise. 

Falder. [After staring at James, suddenly stiffens 
himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! 



100 JUSTICE ACT IV 

I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all 
I've got. 

James. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. 
It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No 
good can come of this connection. It was the cause 
of all your disaster. 

Falder. But sir, it means — having gone through 
all that — getting broken up — my nerves are in an 
awful state — for nothing. I did it for her. 

James. Come! If she's anything of a woman 
she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you 
down further. If there were a prospect of your being 
able to marry her — it might be another thing. 

Falder. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't 
get rid of him — she would have if she could. That's 
been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking 
suddenly at Walter] ... If anybody would help her! 
It's only money wanted now, I'm sure. 

CoKESON. [Breaking in, as Walter hesitates, and is 
about to speak] I don't think we need consider that 
— it's rather far-fetched. 

Falder. [To Walter, appealing] He must have 
given her full cause since; she could prove that he 
drove her to leave him. 

Walter. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, 
if it can be managed. 

Falder. Oh, sir ! 

He goes to the window and looks down into the 
street. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 101 

CoKEsoN. [Hurriedli/] You don't take me, Mr. 
Walter. I have my reasons. 

Falder. [From the window] She's down there, sir. 
Will you see her ? I can beckon to her from here. 

Walter hesitates, and looks from Cokeson to 
James. 

James. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. 

Falder beckons from the window. 

Cokeson. [In a low fluster to James and Walter] 
No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she 
ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. 
She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to 
swindle the Law. 

Falder has come from the window. The 
three men look at him in a sort of awed 
silence. ■* 

Falder. [With instinctive apprehension of some 
change — looking from one to the other] There's been 
nothing between us, sir, to prevent it. . . . What I 
said at the trial was true. And last night we only 
just sat in the Park. 

Sweedle comes in from the outer office. 

Cokeson. What is it ? 

Sweedle. Mrs. Honey will. [There is silence. 

James. Show her in. 

Ruth comes slowly in, and stands stoically 
with Falder on one side and the three 
men on the other. No one speaks. Coke- 
son turns to his table, bending over his 



102 JUSTICE ACT IV 

'papers as though the burden of the situation 
were forcing him back into his accustomed 
groove. 
James. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [Sweedle 
shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because 
there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I 
understand you have only just met Falder again. 
Ruth. Yes — only yesterday. 

James. He's told us about himself, and we're very 
sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here 
if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at Ruth] 
This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. 

Ruth, who is looking at Falder, begins to 
twist her hands in front of her as though 
prescient of disaster. 
Falder. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say 
that he'll help us to get you a divorce. 

Ruth flashes a startled glance at James and 
Walter. 
James. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. 

Falder. But, sir ! 

James. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're 
fond of him. 

Ruth. Yes, sir; I love him. 

She looks miserably at Falder. 
James. Then you don't want to stand in his way, 
do you ? 

Ruth. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. 
James. The best way you can take care of him will 
be to give him up. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 103 

Falder. Nothing shall make me give you up. 
You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between 
us, has there ? 

Ruth. [Mournfully shaking her head — without look- 
ing at him] No. 

Falder. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll 
only help us — we promise. 

James. [To Ruth] You see the thing plainly, 
don't you ? You see what I mean ? 

Ruth. [Just above a whisper] Yes. 

CoKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. 

James. The situation is impossible. 

Ruth. Must I, sir.^* 

James. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to 
you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. 

Ruth. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. 

James. [A little huskihj] That's right, that's 
right ! 

Falder. I don't understand. You're not going to 

give me up — after all this ? There's something 

[Starting forward to James] Sir, I swear solemnly 
there's been nothing between us. 

James. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be 
as plucky as she is. 

Falder. Just now you were going to help us. [He 
stares at Ruth, who is standing absolutely still; his face 
and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on hivi] 
What is it ? You've not been 

Walter. Father! 

James. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll 



104 JUSTICE ACT IV 

do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me 
know what you do with yourselves, that's all. 
Falder. [As if he has not heard] Ruth ? 

Ruth looks at him; and Falder covers his face 
with his hands. There is silence. 
CoKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. 
[To Ruth] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself 
for a minute. 

He points to the clerks' room and moves tow- 
ards the outer office. Falder does not move. 
Ruth puts out her hand timidly. He 
shrinks back from the touch. She turns 
and goes miserably into the clerks' room. 
With a brusque movement he follows, seiz- 
ing her by the shoulder just inside the door- 
way. CoKEsoN shuts the door. 
James. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, 
whoever it is. 

Sweedle. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] 
Detective-Sergeant Wister. 

The detective enters, and closes the door behind 
him. 
Wister. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you 
had here, two years and a half ago. I arrested him 
in this room. 

James. What about him ? 

Wister. I thought perhaps I might get his where- 
abouts from you. [There is an awkward silence. 
CoKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're 
not responsible for his movements; you know that. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 105 

James. What do you want with him ? 

WisTER. He's failed to report himself this last four 
weeks. 

Walter. How d'you mean ? 

WisTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another 
six months, sir. 

Walter. Has he to keep in touch with the police 
till then ? 

WisTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps 
every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, 
even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've 
just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining em- 
ployment with a forged reference. What with the 
two things together — we must have him. 

Again there is silence. Walter and Cokeson 

steal glances at James, who stands staring 

steadily at the detective. 

Cokeson. [Ex'pansively] We're very busy at the 

moment. K you could make it convenient to call 

again we might be able to tell you then. 

James. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but 
I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. 
If you want him you must find him without us. 

As he speaks his eye falls on Falder's caf, 
still lying on the table, and his face contracts. 

WiSTER. [Noting the gesture — quietly] Very good, 
sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the 
terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering 
a convict 



106 JUSTICE ACT IV 

James. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come 
here and ask questions which it's not my business to 
answer. 

WiSTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, 
gentlemen. 

CoKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the 
information. You quite understand, don't you ? 
Good-morning! 

WiSTEB turns to go, but instead of going to 
the door of the outer office he goes to the 
door of the clerks* room. 

CoKESON. The other door . . . the other door! 

WisTER opens the clerks' door. Ruth's voice 
is heard: "Oh, do!" and Falder's: "/ 
cant!" There is a little pause; then, with 
sharp fright, Ruth says: "Who's that?" 
WiSTER has gone in. 

The three men look aghast at the door. 
Wister. [From within] Keep back, please! 

He comes swiftly out with his arm turisted 
in Falder's. The latter gives a white, 
staring look at the three men. 

Walter. Let him go this time, for God's sake! 
Wister. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. 
Falder. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! 

Flinging a look back at Ruth, he throws up his 
head, and goes out through the outer office, 
half dragging Wister after him. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 107 

Walter. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll 
go on for ever now. 

SwEEDLE can be seen staring through the 

outer door. There are sounds of footsteps 

descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull 

thud, a faint "My God!" in Wister's voice. 

James. What's that ? 

SwEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings 
to behind him. There is dead silence. 
Walter. [Starting forward to the inner room] The 
woman — she's fainting! 

He and Cokeson support the fainting Ruth 
from the doorway of the clerks' room. 
Cokeson. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! 
Walter. Have you any brandy ? 
Cokeson. I've got sherry. 
Walter. Get it, then. Quick! 

He places Ruth in a chair — which James has 

dragged forward. 

Cokeson. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong 

sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips. 

There is the sound of feet, and they slop to 

listen. 
The outer door is reopened — Wister and 
Sweedle are seen carrying some burden. 
James. [Hurrying forward] What is it ? 

They lay the burden down in the outer office, 
out of sight, and all but Ruth cluster round 
it, speaking in hushed voices. 



108 JUSTICE ACT IV 

WisTER. He jumped — neck's broken. 
Walter. Good God! 

WiSTER. He must have been mad to think he could 
give me the slip like that. And what was it — just a 
few months! 

Walter". [Bitterly] Was that all ? 
James. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice 
unlike his own] Run for a doctor — you! [Sweedle 
rushes from the outeroffice] An ambulance! 
Wister goes out. On Ruth's face an expres- 
sion of fear and horror has been seen, grow- 
ing, as if she dared not turn towards the 
voices. She now rises and steals towards 
them. 

Walter. [Turning suddenly] Look! 

The three men shrink back out of her way, one 
by one, into Cokeson's roo7n. Ruth drops 
on her knees by the body. 
Ruth. [In a lohisper] What is it ? He's not breath- 
ing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! 
In the outer office doorway the figures of men 
are seen standing. 
Ruth. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's 
dead! [The figures of the men shrink back. 

Cokeson. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] 
There, there, poor dear woman! 

At the sound behind her Ruth faces round at 
him. 



ACT IV JUSTICE 109 

CoKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! 
He's safe with gentle Jesus! 

Ruth stands as though turned to stone in the 
doorway staring at Cokeson, who, bending 
humbly before her, holds out his hand as one 
would to a lost dog. 

The curtain falls. 



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